


Junkyard Dog

by Hedon



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Abuse, Depression, Drinking, Other, mention of maturbation/sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 11:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedon/pseuds/Hedon
Summary: Who the fuck are you barking at?





	Junkyard Dog

People say that what you learn by the time you’re 7 years old stays with you for life. Your core beliefs and values are all formed by the time you’re just old enough to understand that everything ain’t butterfrees and rainbows. Some people learn that a lot sooner than others. Some people ain’t even much treated like a person. Sure there’s your golden years, right? Those few blissful years when someone who aint entirely fucked up put their hopes and dreams on yah. When they looked at yah and saw hope an’ progress’ an’ love, an’ fear, an all them other things that nobody knows how to define. 

How much can you learn in 7 years? You can learnt hat you aint worth shit, you can learn that you’re the greatest ever but only for maybe 5 minutes, you can learn that if you jump for your treat they gonna stop givin’ them and the only reward you get is you ain’t getting beat today. 

Woof woof. Beg. Roll over. 

You learn to do that one real good, roll over. Roll over and face the ground, arch your back and grab your head, maybe then it’ll hurt less. Bark what they wanna hear until you’re nothing but a poor puppy on the ground, whimpering for his life. 

Tell the doctor you fell. You deserve it.

 

Its raining again today. 

The outside of the mansion for once is just as chaotic as the inside. Wind, rain, thunder. It’s hurricane season and the Grunts are all going stir crazy. 

Normally he’d be down there trying to find something at least semi-constructive for them to do like smash a painting or laying all the mattresses on the ground and jumping from the landing but they were all picking fights. Plum usually handled these disputes unless they got physical and then it was Ya boys job to take care of em. 

Today he just didn’t have the patience. He didn’t have the energy. He had two hours of sleep and a fifth of jack that’s what he had. He didn’t like the grunts seeing him this fucked up, felt it might shake their confidence in him or something. He played witheh bottle in his hands, feeling the smooth rim of the opening, lost in thought. 

Woof woof. 

You’re still busy barking ain’t ya? Are you even sure what yer still barkin’ at? You dont know what it is and you can’t even trust it but they all believe that you’re barkin’ at something worth keeping away. They try to learn to bark just like you. They wanna be grizzled and tough like you but they can’t bare their fangs cause they dont got none. 

You loved those broken things so much, those voiceless broken toys and treats and things people once loved and threw away. You built yourself a junk yard of broken people and settled yourself in the middle. 

You hear it every day.

Big bad Guzma is so strong. Big bad Guzma can’t get hurt. Big bad Guzma ain’t afraid. Big bad Guzma can keep us safe.

You never hear it. YOU never see it.

Big bad Guzma is tired. Big bad Guzma is sick to shit of the nightmares. Big bad Guzma is hurtin’. Big bad Guzma is done with these hangovers. Big bad Guzma needs a drink.

He thought back to the one time he had felt a gentle hand. A real loving caress. Every dog needs a bitch and she filled that role. He had just gotten the chops to finally bite the hand the beat him, looking for a hand to feed him and what he got was poison. 

She coaxed him in with kind words eh had never heard, treats he had never tasted and you can bet your ass he came to her beck and call. She was feeding him poison wrapped in sugar and he was coming back for more. How many times had he made problems disappear for her, how many weird favors has he fulfilled? When he had been younger how many times did he let her convince him she was lonely. How many times did she lie about her husband neglecting her? How many nights did he spend in that bed just hoping that one day this bitch would make him a man when all she wanted was a dog. 

Eventually one day you learn to bite the hand that feeds you. He bit, he ripped, he tore, he struggled. Why you gotta bring everyone down to you level? Why do you gotta push every one away? Why do you have to build your walls? Why why why? Woof woof woof.

Because you can get one step lower than Guz. You can be six feet under and that way he don’t have to hear you no more. 

But he did hear the sound of something breaking in the kitchen below followed by cursing. He was broken from his train of thought which was good because he was thinking about how nice and quiet six feet under could be. You always put down an old dog in pain. He texted Plum to take care of it and threw his phone at the wall, smashing it for no conceivable reason other than that he could. The violent motion of his limbs reminded him that they were not in fact made of stone. That he wasn’t just walking around in some empty corpse. He laid back down. 

He had put away all his pokemon, the room was for once empty and he laid back in his throne, closing his eyes and rubbing his face, looking to his bed. He was always afraid to bring a grunt to bed with him, as lonely as he was. Sick of jerking off as he was. He was afraid they’d be like him with Luz. That’s what she had let him call her. Luz. Why had he thought that was such a privilege back then? Why did he let himself believe that it was a blessing? That he was something special. Why did he trust? Why did he care? What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you, Guzma? 

He clutched the bottle tight and stood up, moving to the bed and angrily slugging back every drop he could, smashing the bottle the same way he smashes everything else in his god damn life. He finally couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything but a burn in his stomach that reminded him he was alive. He was glad there was rain because otherwise he’d have to watch the world outside. See these happy functioning normal people, whats worse having them see you. By looking at you they can see your scars and your pain because you wear them like armor. You have the bark of a beat puppy that turned into a beat dog. The dog that shies away from your hand if you offer it and bites you if you pet it. That’s why you can’t ever be out there with them. That’s why you care for all these shattered dreams and forgotten souls.

You can bark and froth and snarl all you want. You can bite the hand that feeds you. You can be the top dog, king of the hill, you can chase everything out of your life, out of your kingdom of trash. You can hoard your broken things and chase away the thieves and vandals…

But that don’t change that they are men and you still a junkyard dog.


End file.
